


Thunderous Fall

by Ellosene



Series: Falling Metaphorically [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: ? - Freeform, Brief references to other ships and characters but they aren’t the focus here, Exhibitionism, Feral Behavior, Group Sex, If you read Slow Descent you know what you’re in for, M/M, Mind Manipulation, genetic manipulation, possessive clones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellosene/pseuds/Ellosene
Summary: There is no reason to start small with them.With him there is reason, hesitation. He has experience and the drive, the basic outline, but it requires cultivation, a steady growth. With them the soil is rich and the foundation is strong. Without even planning for it, they have already begun to play their parts and with that, there is little reason to hesitate.You must be fresh out of the tank! Everyone knows the 212th’s gone on their General!
Relationships: 212th Attack Battalion/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Falling Metaphorically [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732234
Comments: 20
Kudos: 168





	Thunderous Fall

**Author's Note:**

> A bit more existential than Slow Descent but you should read that first either way.

There is no reason to start small with them.

With him there is reason, hesitation. He has experience and the drive, the basic outline, but it requires cultivation, a steady growth. With them the soil is rich and the foundation is strong. Without even planning for it, they have already begun to play their parts and with that, there is little reason to hesitate. 

_You must be fresh out of the tank! Everyone knows the 212th’s gone on their General!_

He grits his teeth, stalks down the hall and glares at the shinies until they scatter and he can keep on his merry fucking way. He hates this. He hates being back on Kamino, back where no one knows well enough to keep their damn mouths shut, stuck here until they find out if this presumed attack really just was shoddy intel. He’s already on edge from coming straight off the heels of a battle to this endless void of waiting and the fact that none of these fucking cadets know the first damn thing about subtlety is starting to grind the last few bits of his infinite patience to dust. At least when they’re out fighting it’s all just pointed laughter and looks, the shit that would happen to any other _vod_ about any other stupid shit. Here it’s fucking insufferable.

It’s the worst kept secret in the GAR, or at least that’s what the joke is. Every single one of the 212th, horribly in love with their General, and no one outside of the ranks can even get it through their skulls despite the way they all stare when he isn’t looking, too caught up in a fight or in a flirt or whatever the hell he needs to talk his way through this time. Everyone knows. They can fucking stop with the gossip about it.

He shakes his head, keeps marching. The longnecks wanted him for something, some project they were excited to finally get the write-off for, as much as any one of them can get excited. It was mostly jargon but the end point of it was that it could up survival rates, could put the 212th on the frontlines for a new treatment they could export back to the barracks on Coruscant to get to the ranks at large. 

It’ll put the ranked _vod_ pretty much entirely on their asses for a few days, a risk if any attack does come, but he knows the mortality numbers keep the General up at night, and he’ll do anything to lessen those bruises on the General’s skin and under his eyes, anything to get him to sleep. Anything at all. 

They all would.

_Spar? Yeah, I’ll spar. Commander, you and me? Feel like I could finally kick your ass._

He bares his teeth, more of a snarl than a grin, already going for the mats the longnecks have set up for observation. They’ve been so cooped up the last few days, in and out of tanks and hopping between different kinds of getting poked and prodded, going on and on about hormone production and stress levels and nerve response times, but now they can move, now they’re all loose, and fuck he wants to _fight_. 

When they go at each other he’s barely aware of any familiarity in the movements, everything feeling faster, stronger, looser in a way that lets him take more hits and deal them out with even more behind them. He slices his lip at one point, he’s not even sure how, and the taste of copper nearly shocks him solid with the urge to _bite_ , something dark and hungry and warm unfurling inside him, drawn through the newly opened cracks by the scent. He nearly throws his opponent off the mat and they circle each other, bloody mouthed and ready for more.

When the longnecks call it and tell them they’re free to go, his hands nearly shake, feeling like he could run forever despite the lateness of the hour they’ve been released upon. They all bump shoulders and knock heads, grabbing each other, reveling in this rampaging burn, wanting to fight, wanting to train, wanting to tear some fucking clankers limb from limb.

He thinks the procedure was a success. 

He should tell the General. 

The longnecks assured him the General had signed off on it all but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t gotten himself into trouble after a few days pretty much unsupervised. He breaks off, heads towards the General’s quarters. He’s probably still awake, probably found something to work on without anyone to make sure he’s sleeping at a decent damn hour. He won’t be expecting a visitor and he’ll probably have to get manhandled into his bed and tied down before he gets some fucking sleep.

Something in his chest rumbles deep and low at the thought. He barely even notices the rest of the hallways. 

He knocks and receives no answer, which doesn’t surprise him. Maybe he’s lucky and the General is sleeping, but quite possibly he’s just absorbed in something. He tries the door and steps in when he finds it unlocked. It barely manages to slide shut behind him before the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard cuts through him to his very bones, takes root alongside the thing curled inside his chest, and snaps his gaze instantly to the source. 

The General paints a pretty picture like this, hips jerking into the unforgiving clutch of the sheets before pressing back into where three fingers slick with spit and desperation are buried to the hilt and spread wide, as if that’s going to be anything close to enough. He takes a step closer, drawn in, and the gorgeous sounds of muffled moans coalesce into shameless begs, the General promising to be so good, to take it so good, if someone, anyone would just use him, spread him, _fuck him_. 

Blood pounds in his ears, thunders under his skin, and the beast in his chest howls, sinking vicious claws into his pounding heart and rending its way into his veins. He has to touch, has to make it real. 

The General startles when he touches his thigh, feverishly hot and _obscene_ , moans and melts and bares his neck under his gaze. He feels that same urge to _bite_ , and this time he can’t even think as to why he wouldn’t. The screams of delight underneath him only ignite it further, make him want to unleash upon the pale expanse of flesh before him, to press down harder and leave all sorts of bruising marks until the General doesn’t have a chance of hiding that he is _claimed._ He tears off his gloves and gets to work. 

He forgets about mentioning the procedure. 

_He’s hiding again, trying to get some paperwork done. Being damned insistent about it too, so we figured that meant breaking out the big guns. Don’t mind tracking him down for us Commander, making sure he gets some shut eye?_

Of course he doesn’t mind, they know that, but there’s been an increase in this sort of thing since the rollout of the procedure, since the rest of the 212th got their teeth sharpened, as it were. They like making sure someone is watching Obi-Wan, keeping an eye out, and he’s more than happy to assure.

He prowls down to the crew quarters of the ship, nodding at a few of his men as they flash him toothy grins, no doubt expecting him to go and wrangle their wayward General. They aren’t far off. He growls lowly as he punches the code he knows will work into the door, lets it carry as he stalks into Obi-Wan’s quarters, to where he’s hunched over his desk, pushing himself to the furthest limits of sleep deprivation in the name of his own beliefs like he always does. Once he would have stood nearby, waiting for the General to give in and stop ignoring him, to let him put him to bed and let him sit nearby to make sure he stayed that way. Not this time.

Obi-Wan yelps, startled when he’s grabbed by the scruff, unprepared for being thrown across the room and onto the bed. His eyes go dark, lusted, and there’s no hiding how much he wants it despite the fact that he was working not ten seconds before, his neck bared and waiting for his Commander. He barely manages to get the necessary parts of his armor off before he fucks him into the mattress, already wet and waiting for him, so eager, probably having spread himself open on his fingers not an hour beforehand. He pushes his cum into Obi-Wan after, bites up his thighs and asks if this is what he wanted, if he was purposefully pushing himself too hard on his work to give him an excuse to come down and fuck him. The blush that rises tells him all he needs. 

When he can again he pulls Obi-Wan into his lap and fucks up into him, carving his place inside him with one hand on pale hip and the other around that terribly dangerous throat, kisses across his collarbones and chest and listens to his voice grow louder and louder until he’s begging to cum and when he finally does the begging doesn’t stop, changes and evolves until he laughs and purrs and fits his mouth over the now-familiar crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and bites, filling his mouth with the taste of copper and turning the begging into nothing but noise. He runs his tongue over the bite when he pulls free, revels in the hungry shudder that gets and knows, pure and simple, that this one will scar. 

He promises, and it is an easy promise to make. When he staked the claim, it was never a claim for him alone. It’s just funny that he wasn’t the one to bring it up first, that he wasn’t the one to press his fingers to the flat of that stomach with such abject desire, desperate to see it swollen, desperate to be _used_.

He lets him wait, punishment for overwork. Waits for them to get busy, waits for the glances and the desperate looks. There have been no diplomats, no time off, no one else to fuck him, just his Commander, and even then they’ve been too damn busy for much. He waits until Obi-Wan whimpers, so very close to crying with desperation for his cock. 

Then he pins him to the wall of the ship early one morning and bites at his ear, growling that he better be good and wet for him next time he checks. 

He thinks Obi-Wan nearly breaks right around midday, when he runs a hand quickly across the Jedi’s ass in the middle of an empty hall. He might have, if there hadn’t been things to do.

He still melts when he takes him by the arm at the end of the day, confused but so willing, so giving, enough to stoke the hunger in his veins and leave him unable to avoid ducking into a few dark corners and kissing him, biting his lips raw and leaving him just enough of a senseless picture to be a surprise for the off-shift _vod_ that he’s told to gather in the crew quarters. They all startle, eyes sharpening as they stare at their General as he pants and whines and stares right back. He knows how they’re feeling, he still gets that feeling now and again. 

He presses in against Obi-Wan, purrs in his ear about how he wanted to share, then asks the room at large who would like to be the first to fuck his pretty mouth. Rumbling begins like the roll of thunder, a dozen or more desperate growls accompanied by the sounds of shifting as they snap and snarl and try to decide who goes first.

Obi-Wan drops to his knees in beautiful supplication.

_Fuck, look at that. Might actually get a few hours of sleep in him yet._

He wants to say something about not getting their hopes up, but no, looks like they might actually get lucky. Obi-Wan’s making a damn good effort of clenching desperately around the cock in him for someone so out of it, managing to draw dual gasps as Wooley pulls out his fingers and sinks in right alongside the first, but he doesn’t even twitch otherwise, slumped back against Longshot’s broad chest. The others seem to agree, stripping down to their blacks or less and looking for a comfortable place to rest. They’re safe here, no point in staying armored up when there might be an eager whore waiting for you if you’re lucky. 

He settles back, waits for everyone to finish up. He wonders if the next time they’re on Kamino he should tell the longnecks that their survival rate is fantastic, though he’s fairly certain that might have something to do with plenty of them going into battle with the promise of plowing their Jedi into the dirt afterwards pushing them on. Then again, could be that they’ve all gotten very good at separating droid heads from their bodies with their bare fucking hands. Could be both. Whatever it is, they’re all more than happy to find a use for the extra adrenaline.

Three more use their pretty Jedi whore before they finally deliver him into his waiting arms, all fuck-drunk and splattered with their claim. He can see a few more bites that will scar, more evidence of _them_ on top of the fingertip bruises, the scratches and stains, and he feels a strangely happy sense of greed overtake him, making him content to just hold him, to wait patiently for him to gather his senses enough to focus on him, to hear him when he trails his own marks over what remains, words spilling from his throat in a rough growl as he presses four fingers in as deep as they’ll go and _curls,_ watching him shiver and shake and cry as he cums without a hint of anything left. It’s what he thinks art might be. 

Later he bends Obi-Wan over the holoconsole and fucks him hard and fast, listening to him keen and writhe and beg because an officer could come in any minute, someone could _see,_ as if his hips don’t jutter and twitch with every word. He bites the scar he left and forces him down, forces him to see the _vod_ who have already turned to watch, hungry and wanting. The door slides open for another _vod_ and he cums all over himself with a gasp like a proper whore, staining his robes wet. He pulls out, leaves him wanting. The pretty slut cries out in loss, as if it is some greater travesty despite having already cum himself, and those around him laugh. He puts himself away. There will be time before Coruscant yet. 

_Waxer’d thought he’d get more time later, didn’t even get him off. You know how he can get. We should do something._

He wants to. Fuck, he wants to. He didn’t anticipate getting stuck in the fucking barracks. Obi-Wan’s smart, he’s a good little whore, he’ll know better than to try to go without a cock, but it puts the rest of them on edge, makes them all snarl and snap, the beasts in their veins howling to seek out their claim. 

The procedure’s gotten held up in paperwork or something, hasn’t rolled out to Coruscant yet, and so the others at the barracks joke, don’t begin to understand, teasing about how something must be distracting the 212th from their training for them to be getting this sloppy, for them to be walking away from spars this bloody and bruised. He grinds his teeth and thinks for one vicious second that he could clamp his jaws around their vulnerable throats and show them sloppy but he won’t, not to another _vod._

They need to do something. As it stands they’re going to kill someone, clawing at the walls in a desperate bid to be let out, to know how their whore is doing.

It comes when Obi-Wan finally calls him, whimpering and desperate and trying so hard to get his belt open and _failing_. It makes him want to howl in delight. He shivers in smug amusement instead at the babbling nonsense that snakes out through the holo instead, snapped up hungrily by the beast in his blood. He doesn’t even think about snapping out an order, commanding him to _think_ and listening in fascination to the startled gasp, the clawing moan he knows so well. 

Pride curls heavy and warm in his gut and he can’t help but laugh, purring and rumbling and fond because yes, this is their whore, their beautiful wonderful whore who can be so much trouble sometimes, who can be so needy and base without a cock inside him. It doesn’t quite manage to stifle the jealousy when he mentions the Knight or Skywalker, but he manages enough, manages to make sure their slut knows how to take care of himself, clear instructions so he doesn’t forget. 

When he tells the others he sees that same surge of pride and jealousy spread, a wave that starts in silence and ends with blood in his teeth and thoughts of the future on his mind. They need to do something, and if there’s one thing they can do to keep themselves sane, they can plan for his return, and how to remind him that he is theirs. 

_Through here, found him in the back. Don’t think he’s noticed the mess._

He can barely think through the haze in his head, but he does his best anyways, spits viscera onto the ground and wipes blood from his mouth before he follows, taking care not to step in too many puddles of gore as he walks. A look around tells him plenty of other _vod_ are doing the same, making a pass at presentable or at the very least trying to fake it, putting their helmets back on and wiping their gloves off on the walls. It doesn’t matter. They’ll burn this place before they go.

As far as anyone will care, this particular band of drunk and drugged out scum died in a fight with knives and blasters. No one will look too close at their tattered remains. 

He spots their whore the same second his hand lands on the back of a couch to leverage over a particularly large puddle and he feels the cushion rend under his grip, the red red _red_ fighting to consume his vision. He shakes it off, takes it in, forces himself to accept what he’s seeing. Pretty clear that he definitely hasn’t noticed the mess, not the dead around him, not the blood on his face from where his last _patron_ was violently ripped away, just the loss of touch, his fingers trying desperately to fill what the drugs have insisted requires more, babbling a stream of wanton begging that makes him want to kill those around them again, this time much _much_ slower for having dared hear it. The others feel it too, their gloves clenched and their teeth grinding. Any longer in here and they may tear into the bodies, may throw down their prize and fuck him in the gore, mark him as much as they can.

He shivers at the thought and commands them out, their whore in their arms, then systematically rips out any remaining throats with his hands, calming himself down. They burn the building, hide their bloodlust from the officers and trust the medics to lie for the ones they can’t bury amongst the ranks. He speaks to the holo with his hands held loosely behind his back, gloves still caked in red. 

They let him stalk the edges of the medbay once he cleans them off, watching their whore fuck himself on Skywalker’s toys until the drugs finally begin to wear off. The copper on his tongue is mostly his own when he tries to joke about the cage, his ribcage rattling with a seething dangerous rage, wanting to take, wanting to ruin, and no one stops him when he drags their whore to the barracks the second he gets the all-clear and throws him to the beasts. 

His _vod_ hold their filthy tarnished whore down for him as he brushes the rough edges of his armored gloves over his fucked out hole, then pushes them in to see the give. Their whore opens his mouth to beg and someone stuffs it full, lets him whimper and choke and sob around it as he waits for the tension to snap.

When it does, they fuck him into the floor. The marks they leave are not little scars like the ones before. These are desperate teeth and blood and flesh, proof of them over the last. He leaves his own mark high above the rest, leaves it a perfect ring at the back of his neck for all to see that he is theirs _, theirs,_ and no one else’s.

_He’s with General Skywalker. Cody, focus. We need to get these people safe. You can go find him later._

No, he can’t. Fuck these people, fuck their rescue. He was here for one person, the whole 212th was here for one person, and now fucking _Skywalker_ has him because they have a job to do. 

He snarls at Rex, watches him flinch back in shock. Why doesn’t he get it? He was with their whore, he fucked him, he should _understand_. Is there something wrong with him? He sees Rex glance around, taking in all the 212th and their stares, and he decides that yes, there must be. 

He turns, and sets about finishing relief as quickly as he can. The second he can, he goes to spar. He is not alone, and the crack of his helmet hitting the wall across the room is soon joined by several others, all hungry to fight down the fury in their blood, fingers clenching in spasmodic intervals and barely managing to strip down to their blacks before they’re upon one another.

No one interrupts. The medics will fix them with silent understanding, their mass of teeth and claws and vicious hits, howling and roaring at each other with blood in their mouths and in their eyes, going at each other six, eight, ten at a time, their beasts howling in kind because they _failed_ , they couldn’t keep him safe, couldn’t keep their whore safe from others. Scum has touched him, ruined him yet again, and this time they’ve been too damn busy to do anything but hope another is handling him well. It _burns,_ and they revel in that pain. 

He calls it when someone throws him from the mass hard enough to pop his arm out of socket, requiring one of the others waiting at the edges to join to snap it back in. He gathers his armor, heading back for the barracks with blood still crashing in his ears. He’s barely stepped inside when his comm beeps and he doesn’t even hesitate to drop everything on his cot and bolt to the quarters, banging on the door until it opens.

He looks so small.

Skywalker has left marks, marks that are purpling and broad, but he’s also _gone_ , and he abruptly decides he’s going to murder Skywalker, easy as that. He goes easily despite the fury in his chest when their whore leads him to the bed, hisses and rages at the wounds that have been left behind by uncaring hands. He tears at the sheets as he presses into the space that Skywalker abandoned, bites into the mattress so he doesn’t rip the pale flesh beneath him entirely, so caught up in the thundering inside him, the need to scour every hint of other and leave nothing else behind. 

He snarls and the whore beneath him shivers, reaches up and pulls him close. He doesn’t even hesitate to go. 

_Execute Order 66. Do not forget your addendum._

It rattles in his mind, nonsensical, even as his beast reorients itself amongst the new curves. He turns to look at where their whore’s mount is clambering up the cliff wall and he calls the retreat, trying to understand.

Their whore, their beautiful precious thing, a traitor. 

He comes so willingly, looks so confused when he hears about the new orders, and he does not fight when they snap the cuff around his wrist, the hints of pain that were beginning to mix into his expression washing away in a rush of calm that is somewhere between beautiful and devastating. They push him to his knees and he goes without hesitation.

A traitor. 

There is not a hint of defiance in those eyes when he pushes dusty glovetips into his wet mouth, when he frees his cock from his armor and fucks in his cock. He takes each who steps forward right there on the battlefield with ease and none of them can think to care past the burning in their hearts and in their heads, the pain and betrayal crunching messily against their vicious dangerous beasts. 

When Skywalker comes they prowl warily between him and their whore, their traitor, many more than happy to remove him from their hunt. He doesn’t push them, his sharp yellow eyes flicking hungrily past them to the show beyond with a new kind of appreciation as he speaks up, curt and clear, explaining his new place, his new role.

They let him through, they can’t not.

He stares down at their traitor’s glazed eyes, his mouth full of his latest prize, and he smiles at how thoughtlessly he leans into his hand, trusting and full. 

He orders them to pack up and follow as he lifts their traitor into his arms, knowing they won’t let him leave without them. 

Not ever again.

_It’s a service darling, I’m happy to please. It’s the least I can do after all the Emperor has done for me._

He hisses his displeasure at that as he watches the whore gently disrobe, silks slipping to pool in a pile by the bed. Not _theirs_ anymore, no, can’t be _theirs,_ not with how many hands touch him regularly, not with how easily he gives, but a whore all the same. His flesh is sodden, his step toddling and uneven, and there is something distantly empty to his gaze, the way it always is after these _meetings._

Everyone else is guarding, he’s the only one off-shift, and so he’s the only one waiting for the whore to come back to his chambers while the others do their jobs and watch and wait. That’s what they do now, protecting everything in the name of protecting this one that they can’t even claim as their own anymore. He growls, low and dark and painfully wounded, shoving the whore into the refresher when he reaches for him, trying to soothe, and scrubbing at his skin until it is red and tender, until he can pretend that the only marks there are his. The whore teases, all breathless smiles and hazy eyes, repeating the same few sentences on loop until he hikes him up against the wall and drops him into his cock, silencing him with a sharp gasp of overstimulation, chasing after the warbling moan that follows. 

In the privacy of the steam and the heat his mouth finds the familiar scar of a thousand previous marks and bites down until he tastes copper, until he can pretend just for a few minutes that there’s nothing in the world but them. 

The whore beneath him is a slut and a needy bitch of the easiest kind, the sort who will take any cock he is given and be grateful for it, easily fucked stupid and supple no matter who offers. It is so easy for him to be pinned and railed and ruined until cum leaks his brain out his ears and there are mutterings often in the barracks if he even knew he was a traitor until after, if someone was fucking him when they weren’t looking, someone he trusted who asked him to do things when he was too fuck-dumb to know better and it makes them all rattle and snarl and hiss, possessive and primal. 

The other mutterings, whispered further back, whispered quieter in case someone could overhear, are that they were keeping a close eye on him, and the only person he trusted enough to do that would be Skywalker. And Skywalker has already proven himself unsuited for the task of owning the whore, considering he’s okay with this stupid service shit, okay with people taking advantage. 

He moves his mouth, leaves another vicious mark. He knows his nails are leaving torn flesh, bruises edged with blood, and with every mark the whore just _screams_ with delight.

They need to figure it out. They need to own him. Because in these moments he knows. He knows who he belongs to. He knows he is _theirs_. Their little traitor whore. 

**Author's Note:**

> Half an hour late for the 4th and I’m still not quite happy with this? It’s gone through about four versions, so maybe at this point it’s better to just post it. Who knows.


End file.
